Perfectionism
by Winkaku
Summary: Starscream sometimes had a habit of becoming hopelessly embroiled in his work. Megatron used to think that was a bad thing.
1. the gun show

A/N: Crack. The weapon model Megatron transforms into in this fic will be unusual to the series and modified as I posses little to no real knowledge concerning such things as weapons beyond: "kapow"

Yay wikipedia!

Summary: Everyone knew that Starscream was a perfectionist but no one knew just how wonderful it was... until now.

How can someone who knows what they're doing not know what they're doing in the slightest.

Perhaps the ultimate irony of the decepticons was their so called ultimate weapon because, in a sense, that was just what he became. When Megatron transformed he lost the ability to move, to speak and to have even the basest control of his functions; he became a weapon, a tool. It irked him to no end. He became nought but pieces and parts and the sum of their total. Some would say that with such a grave weakness that trusting his psychotic second with any of his said functionality or welfare was suicide. At this point in time he would agree.

It had been a routine battle, get in, set up the harvesters, blow up autobots and get out. They were just having a little trouble with the blowing up autobots part, or more specifically; he was. It wasn't the ground formations, that where for once so perfectly arranged ,that had him so vexed, or the beautiful performance of his arial troops who were raining down explosive death upon whatever unlucky idiot happened to be stupid enough to get below them. It wasn't the wonderful grace with which his second had dropped from the skies like a gyrofalcon to catch his transformed commander and blast the hell out of the prime himself. It was that in that very poetic moment of near unleashed destruction... he, for lack of better words... jammed.

The only good thing about any of this humiliation was the massive blow that had subsequently landed on his seconds faceplates.

The worst part was that he now found himself here, unable to transform and laid out ominously on a steel table in his seconds lab like the mechs next dissection project.

"Disgraceful..."

The look on Starscreams face, compounded by the puffy and stitch-welded plates and mass and the fact that his right optic was swollen shut, was positively awful. He'd locked the doors to his lab, set his transformed and wary leader on a space of his clean, neat and organized work table and was now set about placing boxes and rolls upon rolls of tools in their proper place for their upcoming work. Lacking eyes but still aware of the world through a narrow gun sight and that same feeling of trepidation any mech gets before something horrible happens, Megatron felt the thump of toolboxes and small instruments being set at his side. Some where kept in thick lockboxes, others rolled in strong fabric and still others in small delicate looking boxes and holsters. None of them looked anything less than painful. Summoning all the strength of frame he possessed in his current form he managed a small series of shakes and vibrations.

"Stop that!"

Starscreams shriek was loud and terrible, even more so than usual, as he picked up a certain transformed commander's inert form, shook it with anger and whacked it back down on the table as if to have the final word. His lordships chosen form at the moment was a SIG SG 510 battle rifle modified for better close range combat and complete with a shiny bayonet at the barrel. The base of the weapon was larger and more accommodating for the user considering the blowback and power of the gun. The barrel was thicker and a little shorter and the sights were similarly built. The bayonet was larger and serrated. It would look alien to any human but then again, it was.

Starscream wondered under his breath if it would be possible to strangle his leader to death while he was in gun form.

Starscream picked up the locked weapon and with deft hands and a familiarity that bewildered even Megatron himself he thoroughly inspected the weapon like one would a much beloved and much miss-handled piece of equipment. He picked under plates, rotated the mech enough to make him dizzy and peeked into every part he could get his hands on and his long claws under. Then came the horror as bit by bit and piece by piece Megatron was taken apart. He lost his cartridge first, a dead space that shocked him and made him shake feebly in his seconds hands, earning him a scoff. Next came the butt of the rifle and then the bayonet and then his sights. Completely blind and utterly helpless he was at the mercy of his second.

Starscream hissed and scowled as he looked at the utterly dismantled remains of his leader. He was appalled on a level that made him cringe with distaste as he wiped soot and grime from his hands. If he were leader he would never allow himself to be so unkempt... so unclean. The various pieces and parts of his gutted leader were so under-maintenanced and dirty and just plain vile that just looking at the disheveled and opened trigger housing made him feel dirty. Reaching under the table and into one of the drawers he pulled out a box of sterile gloves, donned a pair and began organizing his workspace with everything he would need. Various brushes and rags, soft and delicate to wiry and stiff, half a dozen canisters of oils and lubricants and paints picked out with just the right pigments and formulae and more picks and applicators than one would care to count decorated the table in beautiful organized rows of gleaming metal. He took up one of the many rags and set to work cleaning and repairing the complex innards of his transformed leader.

For Megatron, the next few hours became a blur of blindness and sensation like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Hour after hour his base components were meticulously picked clean, polished, oiled, lubricated, brushed and scrubbed unto sparkling perfection. The sensation was odd at the least but as more and more of him was put back together and attended to with a perfectionists care and fondled and disassembled and reassembled again and again and again... he wasn't vibrating with _shame_ anymore. There was the strong scrubbing feeling of a deep cleaning that made his exterior burn oh so nicely, there was the tingle of oils, the touch of deft hands fiddling with the seemingly unimportant bits he'd never known he had and damn it felt good. The world blinked back into existence as his sight was once again replaced, sliding into place with a satisfying click of components that made his insides purr. He caught a glimpse of claws and optics just as a long bristly _something_ was eased down into his barrel, his insides being scrubbed and brushed, first with a wire brush that felt absolutely marvelous, dragging along his internals and coming out with a pop and a groan he couldn't voice. The process was repeated for a while that felt like a torturous heaven of forever. Then a soft brush replaced the first and it's caress was paradise, followed up with an impossibly plush and decadently oiled set of cleaners that got into every nook and cranny of the inside of his barrel. Whole again and vibrating hot under expert hands he was inspected and meticulously cleaned. A slim talented digit manipulated his trigger mechanism back and forth as the other took notes; thank primus his safety switch was in place, he wasn't sure he could contain himself under this assault. How could that treacherous bastard _not_ know what he was doing!? Claws deftly picked under plates with care, soft touches and the tips of applicators and brushes and rags oiled and lubricated every joint, every plate and every bolt, strap, piece and part as he was manipulated perfectly. The down side of his safety switch was that he couldn't disperse the massive charge building up in his systems, it was like being held on the edge of bliss, utter torture; thank all that there was that he could not vocalize in his current form. He all but writhed and screamed as that horrible, wonderful seeker returned to his trigger; a flick here at the base, a touch there at the barrel, oh primus don't stop, don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstop!

The whole venture ended with a thorough polishing, scrubbing and a heavenly soft chamois cloth rub down. Starscream lifted him for another inspection and with a grunt and a disapproving _tch_ of "It'll have to do..." he was set down on a clean blanket of softened turbofox hide and his second stood to reorganize his table.

"You can transform now you know..." He looked at the dirt and oils staining his hands with revulsion. Starscream had always been a perfectionist, from the first day he had alphabetized the contents of his first lab at the academy it was a well known fact. The very idea that a mech could let himself go like that was disturbing and the thought that he had been wielding such a mess, _touching_ it from battle to battle made his plating crawl. The plating had been beyond dirty with organic matter infiltrates, the trigger'd had a 0.8 second lag, the catches were grinding, the sights were off by 1.8 mm; the list went on... it was unforgivable that one should let a tool fall into such disrepair.

"I need a shower."

He stated in a droll tone with a shiver as he systematically repaired, cleaned and replaced his tools one by one and, when finished, left his lab for the washracks.

Megatron, feeling the coast was clear, shook once, and began the work of transforming back to root mode. Shift by shift, plate by plate, he returned to his normal self like a youngling making his first attempt at the needed transformation sequences. As he stood he gleamed and shone like some kind of Iaconian religious artifact, his joints rolled as if on air, his tingling plates were a suit of impenetrable interlocking armor, his vision had been corrected, his processor was running more clearly than it had in ages and overall systems efficiency had risen from a dismal 75% to that of a baby fresh 98.4%.

He took one step and promptly fell to the floor, howling in overload.

He lay on the floor for some time before he was finally able to drunkenly pick himself up and walk out the door. Slowly making his way to his quarters, spike so hard it was painful, every plate of his body scorching hot, he walked into one door and three walls and blinded half the crew on his single minded quest to -_privacy now- _his berth chamber. Grabbing a few of the coneheads along the way had helped as well.

Days later and rumors running crazy with only Starscreams indignant shrieking explanation of "I refuse to work with inferior unkempt equipment!" there was speculation abound. It had only ended when Megatron had sent a dismayed Soundwave, his gears grinding and spare tape tied up, to Starscreams lab with a lopsided smirk and purr from his throne. Yes, a purr was the only way it could be described, a smug and _very_ satisfied purr. He'd been in too good a mood to do anything else lately; quite frankly it was creeping mechs out. No one on a decepticon base should be that clean and that... sated.

When Soundwave left in much the same condition as his leader had; shiny, shocked and in serious need of _alonetimenow_ walking into four doors, five walls and an entire gestalt, the mystery was solved. A quick acquisition of one of the constructicon gestalt members he'd passed and the resultant happy go fragging pounding into the berth that followed helped spread the word.

Suddenly, there was a lot of "malfunctioning equipment" on base.


	2. tied to the altar

A/N: I gotta say, your reviews are like some kind of addictive drug to me, only without the bad side effects. Delicious, delicious chocolate.

Crack 2, son of crack.

It was disgusting, it was beyond words, it was- it was... well it was conclusive proof that he was surrounded by idiots... There before him stood the pride of the decepticon communications and spec ops mechs; Soundwave. His tall dark blue countenance had stricken fear into many an autobot, his masked face and visor had become synonymous with the word "communications" and his stoicism and blind loyalty were second only to Skywarp. He was the one mechs thought of when they heard the decepticon name. Just being on the same planet as that mech made Starscream want to throw up... now more than ever.

Soundwave stood reluctantly in front of his scrutinzing gaze with a mixture of embarrassment and utter and total disdain. Megatron had sent him to his murderous second with naught but a glance and a strange purring hiccup. It had been bad enough going to his master in such a condition but to be so blatantly dismissed and then _ordered_ to seek _help_ from that psychotic jet was mortifying. There would be no hearing the end of this.

He was right...

"I don't believe this..."

Starscream scowled as he took in the sight of a disgruntled and quite thoroughly twisted and tied up Lazerbeak. Normally problems like this would be seen only in the embarrassed visage of younglings learning their vital transformation sequences for the first time. Normally, this would be nigh impossible, but this wasn't normal circumstances. Being dropped on Earth and forced to take on such crude and misshapen designs had lead them to suffer the same maladies often had by the humans barbaric excuse for primitive technology. In this case Starscream could only deduce that something must have gone terribly wrong with the mechs internal spokes and reels. Soundwaves own beloved bird-like symbiont lay stuck to the mechs chest, thoroughly tied up in a mess of reels and spokes as it cried and flapped against it's masters handhold. Soundwave held the tangled-up bird carefully, close to the front of his chest, wincing as it thrashed occasionally and the tangled tape pulled at their internals.

Knowing that if things didn't get fixed soon, it would be his aft on the line and knowing that throwing this mess out to the Constructicons would be like telling Vortex to play nice, Starscream pointed to a bare spot on his impeccably clean worktable.

"Sit"

Pretty sure he had gotten off easily all things considered, he warily watched the jet as he moved to do as ordered. Lazerbeak squawked as he sat down, shifting tangled gears and spokes painfully; the potential for damage was far to great for his liking. He watched as the other mech took out rolls and boxes of tools, setting them on the table next to him, rolling out several tray tables and carefully pulling out jar after jar; of what though, Soundwave could only guess. He contemplated just snatching a pair of scissors and cutting himself loose; yeah it would hurt like pit and neither he or his symbiont would be able to record anything until the tape regenerated but it had to be better than whatever Starscream was planning. It was Megatrons explicit orders alone that kept him in place. The jet instructed him to lie back as well as he could on the table, padding his back with towels as he did so. He was an awkward mess that was certain and Lazerbeak was no help as the bird seemed just as disgusted with the whole situation as he was but at least the little cassette had settled down. Moving several vials, applicators, brushes and several sets of tweezers ranging from delicate to deranged looking, Starscream donned a set of sterile gloves and an apron, leaning over to turn on a few lamps that hung from their manipulatable stems and position them properly over him. Soundwave sent reassuring pulses to his cassettes and squeezed his eyes shut behind his visor, awaiting the inevitable torture like a man waits for surgery while conscious.

The first thing the two tangled mechs came to notice was sensation, or more so the lack there of. He could feel the first drops of a cold liquid that spread a numbness about his internals that was quite welcome. Lazerbeak cooed as bent wings ceased their incessant ache, twitching a little and bringing about a threat of clamps and vices from Starscream; he didn't rightly care as of yet though, he was just glad for the numbness. Starscream continued his work with a snort, going for a pair of brushes and tweezers. The crinkled tape was stuck fast, he'd have to work on separating it before he could disentangle the stuff. Dipping the tiny brush into a bottle of dark red the seeker set the very tip of it into and around the small nooks and crannies of spokes and tape. Slowly the tape began to separate and slowly Soundwave, what little was left of his dignity preserved by the ever stoic visage of his visor, opened his optics to survey the scene before him.

And promptly wished he hadn't.

It seemed that the seeker had taken his, quite literally, numb resignation as invitation to all-out surgery. The entire front of his chassis was splayed open with clamps and the dark red whatever that the mech was using had turned his chest into a b-movie horror flick, loose tape hanging out like entrails. The tiny red optics of Lazerbeak looked back at him from the slippery mess of tape and oil as Starscream expertly nosed an absurdly thin pair of tweezers little by little under reels of delicate tape.

"Stay absolutely still or I swear tangled tape will be the least of your worries."

With the look of utter concentration on his face it bewildered him that the jet had even noticed he was watching him, though this was Starscream after all, Starscream always knew when he was watching him. Soundwave willed the scene from his mind and pulsed calm into his cassette who keened worriedly in his place, knotted up against him as he was. Hours seemed to pass and not even the lights dared to flicker as the jet worked and little bit by little bit their tape was disentangled. Their was a slight sigh and the clinking of metal tweezers as the cassette deck realized he'd fallen asleep at some point. It was a strange sensation that had woken him, having been completely numb, it came as a small shock. It was a featherlight twittering in his chest and abdomen that seemed as if to make his energon bubble. Lazerbeak chirred as Soundwave turned to see him, the little bird was completely free and chirruping contentedly under Starscreams attentive claws, shining like a new-spark as small brushes swept delicately over him with a masters precision. With a grunt Starscream picked up the cassette and it quite happily flew away to land by his masters side and preen, if the little thing could smile it would be grinning ear to ear, he radiated contentedness. Confused with the sudden change of heart, Soundwave moved to sit up, looking at the now clean yet still propped open components of his chest plating.

Without a word the jet reached over and whacked him across the head like an insolent youngling.

"Sit still or I'll fragging well weld you in place."

The mech continued on in a string of breathy slurs that cursed everything from Megatron to Soundwaves own great-great-great-great-great grandfather. The jet became disconcertedly close to him as he delved into the mechs innards again with absolutely no shame. Some of his back-up recording tape was still sticking out and needed to be reeled back in, his spokes were bent in places too. The tweaking sensation came back as Starscream took a small applicator filled with a light blue oil and dabbed it between wires and coils and reels. With steady hands the mech took a small hooked instrument and slowly spun one of his spoke wheels backwards. Soundwave figured the numbing agent must have worn off by now because the feeling was indescribable. Involuntarily, his tape crackled in a stutter-purr that, thankfully, Starscream didn't interpret as anything but ill temper. He earned himself another whack to the head but that was something he could deal with. Starscream then picked up a pair of pliers, delved into him and came down hard on a bent spoke, snapping it back into place and straightening it out perfectly. It was all Soundwave could do to not yelp like a fool. Thin tweezers expertly manipulated oiled tape and lubricated internals until there were no tangles or disorder left among the delicate complexities of his reels. There was another short crackle-purr of tape on his part but all in all he'd come out of it rather unscathed.

The jet had a look of disgust on his face as he ordered the mech to transform into his adopted cassette player model. With a cry of frustration Starscream yanked off his stained gloves and apron and picked the mech up like someone might try to remove a particularly disgusting insect from their person. Setting him down and replacing his gloves the jet scowled and pulled out a rather nasty set of screwdrivers and hooked implements. Not in the mood for being murdered for lack of cleanliness, offensive as the thought was- he cleaned up damnit!- Soundwave shook to transform. Starscream was having none of it though and promptly disassembled him piece by piece in front of a terrified squawking Lazerbeak.

Starscream took the small cassette by the scruff of his neck and chucked it out the door with a huff.

Looking at the greasy, oily and all-together messy remains of the third-in-command of the decepticon army Starscream quietly wondered if the autobot medic had to deal with such stupidity and wether or not a change of scenery was in order.

Soundwave was in bits, quite literally actually, there was a scattering of sensation here and there, a throb of sound every now and then, a flash of light and even the occasional feeling of pins and needles. Above all though, was the amplified sense of touch, the bristles of a brush along what may very well have been his insides, the brief flickers of vision coming and going, the scrubbing caress of cleansers leaving tingling shocks of electricity. He couldn't tell just where or what he was, lost in the feel of heavenly soft, hot oil, lubricant and polish. He wasn't sure but he thought he smelled scented wax and warm paint. This was it then, Starscream had killed him and he was now in the Well, being tended to with all the love of Primus himself. He was in heaven, a hot, smooth delicious heaven. Finally his lifetime of service and stoicism had paid off and granted him an eternity of bliss.

There was what he very well thought was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel and it was calling to him, bliss and pleasure were calling to him and apparently Primus looked a lot like Starscream.

Thankfully, he couldn't scream in alt-mode.

Bit by bit as he was put back together piece by piece and proper awareness returned with shocks of electric sensation, Soundwave returned to the realm of the living. Only one of the laboratory lamps were still on, vials of sweet smelling liquid sat to the side, he shivered as a turbofox pelt buffed and caressed every bit of him, as he was inspected and turned this way and that. He was opened and tweaked in all the right ways, spokes spinning perfectly with rapture, tape oiled, clean and smooth. He was disassembled and reassembled and cleaned, tweaked and brushed and polished. Yes, Primus did look a lot like Starscream. Thin claw-tips eased inside him, a featherlight touch that left fiery knots of arousal trailing through his compressed mass, gods it was like fragging, Starscream was fucking him in alt-mode with just his fingers inside him and it was- oh Primus!

The manipulative digits left his internals a hot mess as he withdrew them with a grunt of approval, leaning forward with a magnifying glass for final inspection, piecing him back fully together and setting him down onto that lovely turbofox pelt cloth. Soundwave didn't know wether to scream or cry, Starscream had left him on the edge, he was dangling over bliss and it was retreating. He wanted to beat the living hell out of the mech, to grab him by the wings and ride his fat spike like a glitched pleasure-drone. Thank all that there was, whatever powers here may be, that one cannot do so while in the form of a tape-recorder.

Which was the main reason he stayed a tape-recorder.

Starscream gave him a look of long-suffering and slung one of the towels he had been using over his shoulder with a sigh. "Touch anything in my lab and you'll be disentangling yourself from _all_ your cassettes." With that the mech crossed his arms, tossed him a suspicious glare and stalked out of his lab, the door swooshing shut behind him.

Slowly, carefully, now that the coast was clear, Soundwave transformed back to root-mode plate by plate. He glistened like a new-spark, shone like the statues of Iacon and a systems check reported him as working at 110% capacity. He felt like he'd been stuck into an electrical socket, a _very nice_ electrical socket. He dazedly surveyed the re-organized workshop, glanced from the security cameras to the test-tubes, to the sinks and the doors leading out. In his current state he had almost considered a rather severe looking lab instrument as a possible interfacing aide... he needed out, he needed alone-time and above all he needed to figure out how to get to his quarters without maiming his engorged spike on his own crotch plating. He glanced below his waste to the raised paneling, hot and shining and leaking, his extreme arousal was obvious. He took one small step, then two and finally shuffled up to the door, he'd have to make a run for it he decided, a very careful run for it. The door to the lab opened with a swish.

"...Woah... um, hey boss... is that a box of data-pads in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

Why was it always Rumble?


	3. I think I'm gonna be sick

A/N: Your wish is my command.

Crack 3 son of crack 2, son of crack. It's a plumbers convention in here.

The germaphobe.

Ratchet took great pride in his work, he made absolutely certain to tend to the needs of his patients with care and precision. He loved his job, he liked to help, to learn and above all he liked to be useful. When not bound to the base he would spend time working with a few more-so unwitting humans at a few of the local fire departments. He found it to be an excellent way to keep abreast of current events and learn about the humans they shared this planet with. With clever use of his subspace compartments he always made sure that the needed tools were available and that operations ran smoothly. Coming face to face with some of the sillier incidents to which he had been called to was something of a mollifying idiocy; at least he wasn't the only medic this side of Cybertron who had to put up with morons.

He learned something knew everyday; socio-economic issues, psychology, anatomy and physiology, it was an endless source of action. Where he a scientific mech at heart he would truly be at peace with the world in such conditions. That didn't mean there weren't times when he seriously began to reconsider his off-duty hobbies.

This was one of those times.

Today he'd learned what the code "Omega" meant.

This code was apparently something used only by the locals as it was an event that required specific preparations and was, judging by the reactions of those at the fire department, something no one ever wanted to hear coming across the radio system.

Now Ratchet, throughout his long and questionably wonderful career, had had to put up with a lot of messes in his time. From sick mechs spewing semi-processed energon to severed limbs and broken bodies. That didn't mean he enjoyed the mess or that he was in any way prepared for just how thoroughly organic life could re-define his entire concept of the idea of _mess_. Cybertronians called it carrying and it was a completely different process compared to anything that the humans called "pregnancy" and he'd gathered that just from the internet while en-route to the scene...

Thankfully the humans were driving at the time.

Simply put, today, he'd learned far more about organic life than he'd ever wanted to and no amount of pressure washing and hoses would ever be enough!

That's why he was in the wash-racks, cussing up a storm so fierce even Ironhide had buggered off the second he'd seen him. He had been somewhere between desperately considering purging his memory banks and picking under his armor and through his internals as if he were infested with ants when the alarms went off about a Decepticon attack. Which was why he was now here, locked in alt-mode with a gunky jammed up T-cog and strapped into the cargo bay on the Nemesis. Being captured was embarrassing enough but being captured because his T-cog had jammed and he'd been stuck in alt-mode was a whole other neat little section of hell entirely. It hadn't taken much for one of the Coneheads to come swooping in and carry him off...

In a way, he almost lamented his capture-not-kill status. Especially when the Decepticons main-stay interrogator had run off complaining of a rancid smell... Ratchet tried not to think of that.

Any moment now he expected Megatron or some high and mighty Decepticon on a power kick to come along and "interrogate" him. The entire experience would no doubt be an annoying bout of cliché banter ending up in a brig stay until Optimus and Prowl had negotiated his release. Of course there would be a few shock-sticks and laser-scalpels in between but Prime would totally have him out of here before things got messy...right? Dammit, he was a medic not a soldier or some spec ops mech, what information could they possibly learn from him? A brief description of the Autobot's love-lives? A one on one interview concerning this weeks virus running loose in the base?

The STD incident?

He could hear footsteps coming from the hall, measured and ominous, too light to be that of the infamous Megatron or any mech like Astrotrain. Spreading his awareness about himself he could once again feel the presence of Lazerbeak as he sat perched in the rafters... he looked shiny... odd.

Starscream had been standing outside in one of the main halls when a very... grossed out looking Vortex had darted by cursing a storm about "disgusting Autobots" and how he wasn't compensated enough for his work. Which was odd considering that Vortex loved his job with an almost religious intensity... Honestly though, it was all just the energon treat on the bluecake as far as the last few weeks had been. Weird was putting it mildly as far as he was concerned. First Megatron had been too strange to beat him or blame him or even yell at him; he'd practically gotten away with murder these past days. It was disconcerting, the fragger was just plotting something, he knew it, he had to be!

Then there was Soundwave who would spontaneously fold into his alt-mode whenever Starscream entered the room and that was all just bad enough. Lazerbeak had taken to following him everywhere he went... just not in the normal spying way. The Reflector components had started sitting up next to him at the commissary tables when he took his rations and Spyglass looked like he was about ready to hump Starscreams leg if he so much as took his attention off the little mech. Not to mention the strange looks he was getting from the Constructicons.

His trinemates had gone absolutely bizarre as well, they refused to be separated from him and had once beaten thrust into the ground for some offense even he couldn't discern. Starscream was all for beating the Coneheads into the ground but life on board the Nemesis had simply turned surreal. It was obvious, they were all out to get him!

He was almost glad that he'd been put in charge of interrogation while the glorious bin-head "negotiated" with Prime. Slag Vortex, a nice long interrogation would be just the thing to soothe his nerves, get him away from his insane trinemates and keep away from everyone else on this fragging pit-slag of a base that just kept _staring_ at him... maybe there was a virus going around. He opened the door with a sigh, rounded the corner and took one look at the Autobot in the brig before throwing what Megatron would have called a royal snit.

They really were all out to get him.

"_I CAN'T WORK LIKE THIS!"_

Ratchet jumped on his tires, treads skidding on the metal flooring as he turned his awareness from a chirruping Lazerbeak to a grown mech having a mighty tantrum to his left. From his position in front of the door the mech was bringing knew life to the term "hopping mad" as he cussed and griped in more languages than Ratchet cared to count. As far as Ratchet was concerned, having Starscream of all mechs, the screaming wonder, as his interrogator, to be seen by him in such a disgusting condition, was both a horrible punishment from Primus and perhaps poetic justice on the jets part. The seekers howling was beginning to grate on his audials and, quite frankly, he'd be screaming too if it weren't for his vocalizer having been disabled.

Starscream stomped his feet, he wouldn't, couldn't, work like this. The mech was locked in alt-mode, tires chained to the floor and he was absolutely _contaminated_ with Primus knew what and it _smelled_ like a Decepticon drinking binge rolled into a tar pit. Reaching into his subspace he pulled out a clean white rag and held it up to his olfactory sensors; it only helped a little. He circled the ambulance at a distance, spitting and cussing under his breath as he tracked the source of whatever horrible smell had taken up residence in the cargo bay. It was, unsurprisingly, coming from the Autobot. With trepidation and some kind of disgusted sense of foreboding he took the white rag from his face to his hand and opened the back of the ambulance as if defusing a bomb. It was a bomb alright; a stink bomb, a- a horrible bad awful bomb of of- unspeakableness! He shrieked and jumped back as if burned. Ratchet shook on his tires with rage, if he had his T-cog working again he'd give the mech something to scream about. Starscream promptly kicked him in the bumper, took one look at his ped and ran off screaming insults.

Was this some new form of Decepticon torture? Lock a mech up, whack his backside and run? That hurt, and more than just his pride! Sure he was a little disheveled, he'd tossed out his equipment though and he was bare in there but there was only so much that a few humans with a hose and some sanitation wipes could do. It wasn't like he could shove a high pressure hose full of bleach into his own compartments; he'd tried.

This was insulting...

So... what now? Was someone else going to give it a shot, the thought of Megatron trying his hand at interrogation was a little disconcerting...

...Now what?

There was a scraping sound by the door, a kind of scrabbling one often associates with a desperate spider caught in a match-box. The door swung open and in came the Decepticon air commander wearing an industrial apron, toting armfuls of bags, buckets and miscellaneous tools of varying suspicious nature and canister after canister of who knows what. In his arms, masked, gloved and garbed as he was, they did look a lot like instruments of torture.

Starscream, still ranting to himself, was certain that he simply could not share a base, even temporarily, with something that looked to him like it may have crawled out of some organic cesspit. Screw Megatron and Vortex and whoever had sent this pit-spawn within ten sectors of his airspace! Stomping over to the side of the cargo bay, glancing one last time through the gates of hell that was Ratchets back-end, he picked up the fire suppression hose and brought it to bear.

Having his under-armor hosed was one thing, the well meaning humans and their car washes was another; _this_ was new. Having his rear compartment blasted with freezing water from a fire-hose was a sensation that Ratchet couldn't quite describe, it was somewhere between forceful cleansing and an enema... a cold one too. He would have cussed, screamed and torn the ceiling down with pure rage if he could have, but as it was, he was forced to bear it in silence; two things he did not sit well with. It almost seemed as if the hose would never be turned off, that this was indeed some new nefarious form of Decepticon torture but just when he was about ready to cry for his sore back-end the water stopped. He all but sagged onto his wheels... thank Primus.

Starscream, still behind the other mech, found he could now almost look at the ambulance without wanting to vomit profusely. Grabbing a pole, a very nice, very _long_ pole, Starscream attached a brush with a soap dispenser to the top and, certain to stay at a relatively safe distance, set the brush to work.

Ratchet lurched on his tires as a cold, coarse, bristly brush scrubbed his insides; he could feel the fizzing foam, the tingle of cleanser and the all encompassing sensation of grime being removed.

It was bliss.

A Good while of scrubbing and then came the hose again, blasting away foam and grunge, it was heavenly, for both of them. This time Starscream picked up several buckets of something else and went about dousing Ratchet completely in the anti-septic wash, inside and out. Getting out another couple sets of very large brushes the seeker began scrubbing him from tires to headlights and doorknobs. The time allotted to this task became a whirlpool of scrubbing, cleaning, soapy disinfection the likes of which never before experienced in the sphere of Ratchets existence. One could barely breath without cleanser and bubbles getting into places, the whole cargo bay seemed a conglomeration of suds. Water poured with bottle after bottle of cleanser, buckets and canisters littered the floor, brushes and scrapers and rags in bin after bin. Ratchet was blinded by bubbles, suds and buckets and couldn't care less. The whole world had tunneled down into soap and scrubbing and it was wonderful. Somewhere between the fizz-pop of foaming cleanser he caught a glimpse of cherry red hips swaying in suds and sopping wet as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Now Ratchet was all for professionalism but even among the Autobots there were quite a few mechs who had imagined tapping the lovely aft that was currently grinding against his grill as the jet scrubbed his roof.

That's it, this really was some form of torture.

There was the sensation of weight shifting, of coarse brushes being switched out for a slightly softer set and Ratchet could feel a hand on his bumper as the crazy jet knelt down to crawl halfway inside of him. His engines revved as the seeker brought down brush and soap and oil and wax all along his insides. There was a click and a hum as an electric buffer was turned on and his whole interior, cabby and cargo hold, were put through the spin cycle from coarse brush to soft buffer. The shock of cold water turned hot as the mech switched out hoses, reaching under panels and fixtures, got on his hands and knees and scrubbed and detailed; nothing was overlooked. Ratchet wanted to be on his hands and knees too but from the look of it the jet was oblivious to anything but the concept of blissfully ignorant sterilization. Thank Primus his vocalizer was out. Engines roared and a few of his lights switched on and off, a small warbling wail of a siren going out could be heard as the ambulance shook in overload. The hose came again as he was rinsed inside and out, static shocks of overload bliss lost in torrents of water and foam.

Starscream stood back with a huff, crossing his arms and gaze turning to resigned acceptance as he gathered up his tools, hosed the ambulance down one last time for good measure and left the room to take the used equipment for a good run through the incinerator, preferably with his armor as well.

Ratchet sat quietly in the cargo bay rocking back and forth on his tires as Lazerbeak flitted down to land on his hood and preen. He stared at the cassette, to lost in post-overload rapture to be horrified just yet. The little bird stood up on it's tiny legs and relayed a message. "Fine fine, he's yours now, just be ready with the shipment." The voice on the recording was undoubtedly Megatron, who seemed far too smug. Prime must have negotiated his release then... there was going to be one hell of a de-briefing. The future simply couldn't seem to bother him just now as he settled into the pull of recharge with a hiss of hydraulics. It would all catch up with him later but for now he only wanted to enjoy the days surrealism.

He'd been escorted to the field calmly, quietly and cleanly. Lazerbeak sat on his masters shoulder as Soundwave shot him a knowing look and Prime and Megatron continued their usual banter back and forth. Starscream was hidden behind his trinemates, much to his chagrin, as Thundercracker leveled a glare to the still transformed medic. Whatever, it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone.

It would be a whole four hours before Ratchet would transform back to root-mode. It never seemed to hit home for poor Firstaid that it didn't matter how much you repaired a vocalizer or a T-cog to get a patient up and running again if the patient simply didn't want to.

It was with no little satisfaction that Ratchet was able to deliver his report to Prowl some time later and somehow manage _not_ to crash the poor mechs processor.

It was with _great_ satisfaction that he invited Wheeljack for an overnight stay in his quarters.


	4. a rock and a hard place

A/N: Oh this is gonna be fun... I don't know where this all keeps coming from.

Crack 4, fan-service second cousin of crack 3

Being stuck in a cave was one thing, being stuck in a cave with a certain claustrophobic seeker was another thing entirely.

The avalanche and resulting cave-in had been unexpected but not unaccounted for in tactics discussion before the battle. The limestone strata beneath their feet had been a major hazard to take into consideration. Limestone in the earth was notoriously unstable, especially in areas of underground water activity. The water would cut away and dissolve the stone until nothing but a sinkhole would be left, ready to take them all under. It was a risk but they couldn't exactly stand by and let the Decepticons run wild just because they were afraid to loose their footing.

The results had been... unstable.

Optimus Prime lay on his front, body blackened with charred earth and the dark mud of the surface. The rocks at his sides cut like razors and he could hear the thin sound of running water as he strained his audials to the echoing quiet around him. Trying to sit up only ended with him on his side, more rocks under his armor and lots of pain. He could still sort of feel his legs, a dull pain of awareness, but the motor relays weren't responding properly, if at all. Lurching back onto his front in a futile attempt to move himself he could almost hear Ratchet yelling at him for it. It was no use but his flailing did bring several things to his attention. The first being that the low walled cavern itself, most likely created by the washing out of limestone, was illuminated by strange strings of greenish light. He took a little time to stare bemusedly at the tiny lines of bioluminescent bacteria that lit the makeshift ceiling like stars. Organic life always amazed him with it's various forms and methods of survival. The second thing he noticed, brought to light under the emerald glow, was that the armor of one of his legs was crushed beyond any repairs he could make himself and several fuel lines were exposed or kinked and perilously close to being torn by the surroundings. If those major lines were wrenched out and ruptured he would bleed out long before his troops caught wind of his automatic distress beacon.

The third thing he noticed in the dim was the grey-white form of a certain seeker and his bent back wings and bright red optics.

Starscream stared angrily at the other, wincing as his bent wings ached. There'd be no getting out of this now, not stuck in this cavern with the roof caved-in and his wings out of shape. He'd been awake for quite some time now and if it weren't for his intact chronometer and the glowing bacteria on the rock he was sure he'd have gone mad by now. His chronometer assured him that time and space really did still exist and the fluorescent bacteria created the illusion of a starlit sky above his head so long as he didn't think to hard about it, which was no easy task with a processor like his. He sat there with his knees drawn up uncomfortably close as he watched the Autobot try to look unapproachable. That was another reason he was still sane, even in the worst of the dark cramped damp and rock, he wasn't alone. He could hear the others systems running quietly and it was that sound that anchored his mind to reality. It was also the reason he hadn't killed the fragger, he needed that sound.

So he did the only thing left to him, he glared.

Optimus shifted on his front, carefully trying to keep the quiet Decepticon in view. His feet were a muddy mess half submerged in some kind of small underground stream, the kind of stream that was so pure a human could drink from it without side effects. His weapons systems were offline, not that they'ed do much good other than causing another collapse and getting them all killed. Starscream seemed to have come to a similar conclusion as his weapons were also off-line. He wondered why the Decepticon hadn't tried to kill him at some point, hell, he'd have very little work to do if he wished to.

Starscream fidgeted, picking dirt from under talons and eyeing the other mech suspiciously, having long ago taken stock of their collective dysfunction. Optimus was in no position to move around let alone hurt him. He twitched his bent wings with a hiss, contemplated constellations out of the false stars and their glow on the rocks, preened his claws and feet and even managed an internal debate on the physics of numerous different paradoxes before he'd run out of things to think about _other_ than the walls collapsing in on him. It had only been about an hour and he'd already worked out how to marry quantum mechanics and the theory of relativity as well as the mystery of the Bermuda triangle in concern to lost human transports and how to blow up the sun in a way that one could harvest energon from it; he filed that one away for later.

Nope, still only an hour.

Besides, knowing his glorious leader it would be the Autobots who found them, it wouldn't be the first time either. He lamented his fortunes with a sigh as he sat further into the rock and tried to occupy himself, he needed a distraction and badly.

Optimus couldn't help but stare as the seeker sighed and continued to do nothing but twiddle his thumbs. He supposed it had something to do with the inherent claustrophobia of seekers. He watched the other fidget as he tried to bend himself enough to reach his legs and try some form of repairs. Starscream shifted to the sound of laboring systems as he watched the other mech wriggle on the ground with no luck. If he kept moving around like that he'd sever a line in his leg and bleed out and the Autobots would blame him for it. That wouldn't be pretty. He focused on the sound of the others systems in the dark and listened as hard as he could, it helped but barely. That was the problem with a mech like him, he had a constant need for mental and physical occupation, something to set his mind to and work his hands with, it was the crutch of his constantly active mind. He scooted forward, there wasn't enough room to stand so he stayed low on his aft as he dragged himself slowly, jerkingly forward.

Optimus felt something at his side, too busy trying to manipulate himself into a better position to have noticed it earlier. He froze and turned to look at the seeker that was now sitting right at, if not on, his side. He stared in shocked silence at the other and the look on the mechs face promised problems if he were to point out "the elephant in the room" so to speak.

It was either go mad or do something, anything to keep his mind off the rock around him. If that "anything" included repairing an enemy just so he could get his sensors on another living mech to keep himself sane than so be it. He set clawed hands on the mechs back and gave the other a look that just dared him to say anything, anything at all. Unrolling a scroll of tools from his subspace Starscream set to work repairing the mechs legs with a single minded focus more often found in well programmed drones. Optimus hadn't known what to expect when the seeker, the most infamous of them as well, had scooted up to him with the look of a kicked turbo-puppy that quickly morphed into the image of absolute put-upon cynicism. He lay quietly, watching the other work in silence and wondering just what he was up to. The seeker let his touch linger on his armor as he worked. The dock-worker from vorns long passed pointed out that the mech might be trying to cop a feel off him. The more sensible half remembered that this was a seeker, a model notorious for claustrophobia and the need for tactile stimulation. Starscream was relying on him not to speak, not to point out just who they were and where they were so he could keep up this ruse and not go mad in the dark confines of the underground. He allowed it, out of sympathy for the other and the boon of having his broken legs tended to.

It was hours before he heard the first faint radio transmissions from his men, they were closing in. He fine tuned his radio and attempted to deliver a response.

"Underground cave collapse. Starscream is here too, no threat currently, proceed with caution."

There was static and fuzz over the radio, wether they'd received his transmission or not he'd done all he could. Hopefully they would get the message and know to dig carefully, he'd hate to see what would happen with the seeker if the walls started shaking. There was a series of low clicks and croons from the mech as he worked, sealing lines and patching his broken sensor-net, the seeker would throw the useless bits of his charred armor over his shoulder as he welded and stitched. Optimus was sure he would be screaming if not for the broken relays.

Starscream fidgeted again, cleaning more blood and imagined muck from under his claws. He had no idea how long he'd spent patching the other up and repairing neural lines but he could hear chatter on his radio and whispers of comfort along the trine bond. It made the enclosed space bearable but as he looked on his handiwork he realized there was nothing he could do about the rest of the damage without better equipment. He stared at the wounds, proud of his flawless work, and lamented his genius. Had he been any other mech he was certain the repairs would have taken the whole of the time until rescue, now he was stuck in his head again. He flexed his clawed toes in the muddy stream bank and even his innate disgust for all things squelchy couldn't distract him. Looking down at his feet he thought to clean them but the position in such a cramped place would be impossible and that just lead down the wrong path of thinking. It got to the point where he could only be thankful that there was another pair of feet perfectly within reach.

It started as a faint picking sensation at the very tips of his feet, a small feeling that managed to be relayed along his restored secondary sensor net, like the beak of a bird prying at his armor. Shifting carefully, mindful of his now working sensors, he tried to see what the mech was doing. The pick, or whatever it was that Starscream was using, had gotten under the armor plates of his left foot and he jerked.

"Disgusting, do you have your medic bathe you and they all take turns? Stupid Autobot mudslogger..."

Starscream grumbled under his breath as he picked into the hidden pockets of mud and grit under armor plating.

"Sparkling needs someone to wash his feet for him?"

This was getting better, he was almost getting angry enough to overlook his current predicament. Like he always said; don't get scared, get angry.

"Rust bucket spawn of a glitched up file-and-fax!"

He couldn't quite catch a lot of what the other mech was saying, it was a well kept secret of his but he was ticklish and that pick and those claws were getting everywhere. He huffed dirt away from his vents in a vain attempt to keep his composure, once upon a time one word would have shattered the illusion they'd built up for mutual safety, now he doubted any words would be heard. A thin pick and pointed claws worked their way up his ankle struts and under the plating of his calf as he squirmed and made distressing sounds that Starscream either couldn't hear or refused to hear.

"Shut up and hold still you rusted cod-piece!"

Starscream grabbed hold of his foot and maneuvered himself on top, cussing all the way as cascades of mud were washed away into the once clear stream at his feet. He jerked his foot again, held in place by an irate seeker on a mission and his own broken back.

Oh if his troops could see him now.

He shuddered at the thought and just how possible it was with his men out looking for them; what would be worse? If they were found by Autobots or Decepticons?

What would Megatron say!?

"Starscream- I- Stop-" Was all he got out before the deranged seeker pulled his leg back and started scrubbing with a bristle brush from his kit. Optimus couldn't help it, his calfs were sensitive. He squirmed as best he could, trying for all his might not to burst out laughing as the seeker practically sitting on his aft declared war on the grit under his armor, hissing and spitting all the while. Halfway through his internals had started to overheat and Starscream had replaced the brush with cool stream water and fine claws. Positioning himself carefully, knees on the junctures of Optimus' thighs and aft, Starscream started to meticulously clean between the plates of his back and spinal struts, lost in a world where nothing but unwanted grit existed. Optimus startled himself with a purr of his engine as the other descended the curve of his spine. Working under panels and around wires the seekers claws grasped grit, washed out mud with stream water and caressed sensors under armor to high alert.

"Starscream-"

"_**Whiney Turbo-puppy!"**_

His shout was interrupted with a full on screech and a cuff upside the head, complete with all the arrogant vehemence of a lord interrupted from his most important duties by the lowliest of servants. The outburst was followed with so many insults and threats of inventive bodily harm that he couldn't get a word in edgewise no matter how hard he tried. He blushed and thanked Primus for his battle-mask as Starscream's claws came to the curve of his aft and started creeping under armor. Wiggling about only managed to get the mechs claws in deeper and his back to protest as the madmech's spindly digits started to get disconcertingly close to certain cover panels.

Slag the mud, slag the seeker, slag the rock! He needed help now!

A thin set of claw tips wormed through wires to a spot right next to his valve and it was all he could do to choke back any unfortunate noises. His engine humming and his face stained with energon he dare not try to wriggle free with the mechs fingers practically in his aft on their single minded mission to remove every speck of grit that had ever gotten under his armor. He jolted with a yelp as the seekers claws brushed against a cluster of wires and mass, the flier berating him for it with another string of curses.

Optimus, pleas for mercy unheard, could only think to send a frantic message along the radio lines before claws got into his hip joints.

"_Help!"_

His prayers were answered with the almighty shuddering of rocks and water as the roof collapsed to reveal the plating of a large green and black hand that grasped his. The shaking however had snapped the seeker out of whatever single-minded frenzy he'd entered and promptly went from cleaning into jolted clinging for dear life with every hooked instrument he had on his available limbs. Optimus howled as claws dug into his aft and legs and refused to budge even as he and his seeker spacebarnacle were hauled out into the light. Upon being hauled out his legs gave out from under him and his men gathered from their efforts pulling him out only to stop short and stare at the seeker stuck to his aft. Shaking, bent wings flat against his scraped up back, claws dug in under and into armored plating and eyes wide, it was obvious that Starscream was not inclined to move at any point in the near future until he'd gained his bearings. His men were, for once, rendered quite speechless as he lay on his front. Jazz looked like he'd found someone's porn stash hidden under their berth and Mirage was quickly turning an interesting shade of purple as Hound, Optimus still latched onto his hand, sputtered and hiccuped.

"What in the name of-"

There was the sound of jet engines as one of the seekers found them, it looked to be Thundercracker who had sniffed them out, swooped in low among shocked laser fire and a piercing howl of pain to fly off with a rather traumatized looking Starscream.

Still holding onto Primes aft plating, sans Prime.

"_**Don't look!"**_

It took only a few hours and a lot of shying away to escort their essentially pants-less and back broken Prime to base where Ratchet would finally be able to fall all over himself laughing when Firstaid pointed out his perfectly clean foot. No amount of "I am the leader" looks would be able to wipe the smile off Jazz's faceplates as he was debriefed.

It took a lot of reassuring cooing and cuddling in a berth full of his trinemates before Starscream had calmed down enough to be seen properly by the Constructicons who would later question him about the clawed red plating still clenched in his servos.

Megatron would have been furious with his failure to kill Prime were it not for an auspicious gift on his behalf later during the meeting. Said gift was soon mounted on the wall behind Megatron's throne on a huge decorative purple commemorative plaque and became quite the centerpiece during future negotiations with the Autobots.


	5. oops

(A/N: It's important to remember where expertise comes from.)

It had been a routine reconnaissance mission, the three little mechs where supposed to get in, take pictures and get out before being spotted, by humans or Autobots. It had been a short survey of a human built reactor as a site for future Decepticon raids and it had gone so horribly wrong and now their littlest brother was in pieces.

Their sparks where crying for him and there was no answer.

Spyglass had fallen from the high rocks of the mountains during a small earthquake as he stood perched at the edge. What fool would build a reactor on a fault line in the mountains was beyond them but as the tectonic plates had shifted underfoot there was little thought left to them but pain. The rock had been unforgiving and the fall had been horrifying. They could still feel the crack-crunch of delicate armor and struts and the grinding of earth in their joints and the brief flash of blindness across a shared bond that was now minus one.

This was why Megatron stood beside them as he held the Reflector gestalts littlest brother.

It was his fault.

He knew the danger, knew how delicate his best spy team was and knew now that none of that mattered anymore.

Spyglass was a fully grown mech but small enough to fit in the palm of his hand and still so terribly young. The lens at his center was cracked and broken, there was dirt and rocks trapped in his joints and his tiny frame was bent and cut through by gravel. Hook had said the mech was simply too small and too complex to repair properly, that the blood in their bodies was too precious and too much of it gone from his systems as it was.

There was damage to the little mechs spark casing as well.

The Constructicons simply didn't have the tools or the skill to work with such a small mech; Hook had given him painkillers and reported it would be a few days before the little spark extinguished.

Megatron had taken one look at the shocked faces of his smallest gestalt and knew there was only one thing left to do, that there was only one mech whom he could trust to deal with his mistakes.

There was only one mech he knew that could pull a victory out of his aft at the last minute and he really needed one right now.

No need to mention that said mech had seen this coming.

They followed him as he held their smallest, as he commed Soundwave for the location of his last resort, heading not for the gestalt's shared quarters or the labs or even the incinerators. Puzzled but more so despondent they followed their leader as he came to a stop outside the dented grey doors of the one mech who cloud pull miracles out of dull, greyed out corpses.

The Decepticon second in command.

He keyed in his codes and opened the door without preamble only to come face to face with Starscream himself, bright red eyed gaze unmoving and expectant. Megatron lifted a brow at the obscene display that was the mechs trinemates on the berth behind him.

"You owe me."

It was with those words that Starscream now stood in his lab, tools having already been laid out in anticipation of their need and rows of lights and magnifying glasses and tweezers and torches stood at the ready. Megatron stood in the back, Viewfinder and Spectro on each of his armored shoulders, having insisted on at least being able to see their smallest brother as he died. The three stood as silent sentries in the shadows of the labs while he worked, a brooding Megatron and two scared, quiet little mechs, bleary eyed and tired; a macabre audience to delicate procedures.

Hour after hour slithered by to the tick and click of tiny metal instruments, the smell of soldering irons and metal and the buzzing whir of tiny blades smaller than they could see as they did their sanguine work. The cool blue light of a small tired spark shone bright in the dim lighting as, oh so delicately, broken fragments where removed and replacement metal was sewn and weaved into place with care. There was the twitch of a tiny broken frame as precision welds pieced a tiny spark chamber back together and replaced the small cracked optic lens of Spyglass' left eye. Thin pliers and needle-like bands of torch fire worked in tandem to cut away sharp broken pieces of dented helm plates from the tiny mechs processor, realigning and replacing bits and lines with tools and parts from his own personal stash. Tweezers like slivers cleaned rock and dirt and energon wet mud from small joints and wounds as the clotted cuts were cleansed and sealed one after another with a speed that would make even Ratchet proud. Water, solvent and a dropper washed out crevice after cranny and soon the little mech started to look like a mech again. With blood loss so expertly avoided and supplemental energon provided via a larger than average titration kit, the color slowly crept back into the grey that was once so prevalent on Spyglass' frame.

With a sigh, Starscream removed the various magnifying glasses and pen-lights from the rig in front of his optics. He'd gone through the little mechs systems inch by inch an piece by piece until he was personally satisfied that all injuries had been seen to properly and effectively. Spyglass may have resembled a patchwork of tiny welds and lots of bandaging but the second the little mech twitched his fingers and the tiny red optic not covered by an eyepatch glowed red, his brothers broke unto weeping. Megatron took his burden from his shoulders and set them gently onto Starscreams workstation with a nod, turning to leave. Starscream was glad to see the mech still walking as though he carried the other two with him, good, he needed to remember this. Spectro and Viewfinder cooed and cried over their brother as he lay disoriented on the lab table.

Starscream slowly picked up his tools, cleaning and replacing his equipment as he re-organized his station. Reaching for a soft pelt he carefully lifted the injured mech in his clawed hands and placed him onto the cloth, setting him aside next to his fawning brothers as they shook off the pall of death. One by one he saw to them all, picking dirt and grit and gravel from joints, cleaning and closing wounds as the two chatted back and forth with their recovering third. He gave them medical grade energon from his repairs stash and they complained gamely about the taste.

Spyglass finally fell asleep with Spectro still holding his hand as their brother was being tended, cleanser still fizzing as it removed grime from under his knee joints. Viewfinder looked grimly up to him, dull tired eyes still dry and sore from emotion, tear tracks wiped away under soft chamois.

"thank you."


	6. decepticon torture

(A/N: water boarding is bad.)

"By all rights I should have you interrogated and executed. It would be the proper thing to do."

Megatron stood before him, in front of the electrified bars of his small cell in the Decepticon hold, with an angry grimace written across his dark faceplates. At his sides stood two other mechs; Hook and Vortex, each with their own brand of expression, though Hook looked particularly grim and that didn't bode well for him..

Jazz would have put the whole confrontation off as enemy interrogation tactics... where it not for the bucket in the Megatrons hands and his rather curious expression. The shadows played like murder across his face and the bucket he held smelled like purged energon and slag. Jazz grunted, shifting in his cell into a more comfortable posture of total nonchalance. His hands had been cuffed behind his back, his weapons removed and his feet lashed together; he wouldn't be getting out of this anytime soon.

How had he gotten into this mess? An unfortunate series of events leading up to a reactor in the mountains that some idiot had decided to build on a fragging fault line. Primus.

It hadn't helped that he wasn't the only mech there at the time and it certainly did no good to watch as Spyglass fell under the rockslide. Self preservation and cowardice don't hold too well under the disappointed gaze of Optimus, not even the imagined variety. He simply wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he'd left the little guys to die under a pile of boulders, so he'd dived in and done what he could at the time.

No good deed goes unpunished but he'd rather face an angry Megatron's scowl over that sad dejected look of soul crushing disappointment that their prime could dish out; it was the worst. It was the fusion cannon of argument warfare as far as he was concerned.

"Autobot spec ops unit Jazz, you are hereby sentenced to Decepticon interrogation until your return unto your faction when the ransom has been met."

The mech had a crooked grin on his faceplates and his eyes glowed red as he lifted the bucket of slag and summarily dumped it all over Jazzs head. Even briefly blinded by gunk he could still hear Vortex cackling as they left, Hook throwing him an indecipherable look over his shoulder.

Disgusting as this was he still didn't understand how any of this could be called torture, it definitely wasn't up to par with previous experiences but he totally wasn't about to complain... yet.

As it turned out he'd been wrong, the bucket hadn't been filled with industrial waste or even slag but was in fact full of fish. Dead fish and seaweed.

"This is fraggingpitslag!"

It was beyond gross and it stank to the pit and back, he imagined that this must be what Unicron's breath smelled like... or Hounds peds.

"I call war crimes!"

Indignant hollering wasn't going to get him anywhere and with nothing to clean himself with it was going to be a long prison stay. He could feel fish gunk seeping in through his plates as he attempted to disentangle seaweed from his helm and antennae. It dropped to the floor with a peculiar squelch as a small crab crawled disorientated across the brig, raised claws bobbing in anger and confusion.

"What you wanna start a fight now too!?"

It skittered into the shadows as the brig doors opened and several mechs came in to leer at him. Astrotrain at the lead ordered the cell bars deactivated and opened as he stepped forward and lifted Jazz up at arms length. Neatly tied as he was there was little way he could protest aside from making those fraggers regret touching him in every fishy way possible; even Wildrider looked disgusted.

He was hauled through the Nemesis in a silent procession of grumbling as he squirmed, shuddering as the slime got deeper under his armor for all his efforts. Cussing and wriggling aside, not even the fish goo could free him... why fish, why cover him in goo and drag him off to who knows where? Jazz's analytical processors where coming up with a dozen humiliating scenarios, none of which he liked and all of which ended in goo.

They brought him to a door as he glowered silently from Astrotrains big fists, Wildrider giggling like the madmech he was, whatever, if he was going to go out gooey it would be with gooey dignity. The large bolted door opened with a burst of steam as the mechs quickly threw him into the humid dimness. He got to his feet to the sound of the doors slamming shut and the big mechs running like the pit, a small echo of tiny peds following them as they went.

"o-o-o-kay then..." This was odd, like odd with a few extra what the fracks thrown in for funzies. It was dark and damp and there was water running and whatever was in here with him was capable of making five grown Decepticons run like the pit master was after them. Not good.

It was dim but not pitch black, he'd be able to see as soon as his optics adjusted to the darkness around him. There was water dripping in the background, the whole place was like some kind of sauna; it was hot humid and unforgiving. The floor appeared to be an almost rusty red-brown and there were what seemed to be various basins and jars along the wall with a large in-ground tub full of steaming water by the center. The mysterious chamber smelled of acrid chemicals and dirt.

Was there some kind of aquatic mech-eater in here? One of Shockwaves lab experiments gone wrong? A fish goo loving monster? He couldn't help but remember a certain scene from that movie Star Wars... he hoped he had more luck than R2-D2.

"Hello-o-o-o-o-"

There was a clatter in the far left as he turned sharp to come eye to red eye with a jet and not just any jet at that. Starscream himself sat on a footstool, a frozen tableau of soap suds under a shower head, he seemed to have come to a halt mid-scrub of his clawed toes.

"Scrap."

The mechs left optic twitched.

He stood slowly and menacingly, like the rising tides of a tsunami, wings flapping with anger as he took one look at Jazz and howled bloody murder.

Jazz was about ready to try hand-to-hand combat without hands when the crazy jet took a hose off the wall and sprayed him as if the act itself would clean him off the floors, as though he were an ugly stain or a hideous bug. All it did was make him fall _on_ the floors spluttering curses but that wasn't a deterrent for the mech it seemed. The next second he was assaulted by bristles and soap and it was all he could do to spit bubbles and clear his intakes.

"Hey mech what the frag-"

"**Shut up!"**

He shuddered, well that didn't help, he'd thought only Ratchet and Ironhide could yell like that. The hose came back again as he was turned over and scrubbed, laying on his front, hands and wrists and feet bound as his aft hung in the air and Primus forbid the brushing should spare him that indignity. He jumped and hollered as coarse bristles came down on his backside again and again with a hearty heavy whack, a large clawed ped coming down on his shoulders to anchor him to the ground.

Many mechs would venture to call him a delinquent, Jazz knew full well that it was his job to break the rules in as many ways as possible and that he enjoyed the hell out of it too. What mechs would think of when they found out about his crushing on an ex-enforcer of all mechs was usually obscene and involved various uses of restraints.

They where right too.

It had been a lo-o-o-ong time since a mech had given him such a demanding beating and the cuffs weren't helping... neither was his imagination. He couldn't help it as his temperature shot up, he let out a loud yelp and a lot of squirming as a scalding sudsy brush found certain front panels that guarded certain delicate things. The clawed foot yanked him onto his back as the seeker crouched over him and brought a rag down onto his helm, he couldn't stop the writhing that followed, the protrusions on his helm where sensitive and the brush was oh-so deliciously rough. It didn't help that he was face first in the seekers cherry panels as the mech leaned over him and scrubbed tingling cleanser into his sensor array. There was no dignity in this and he had no control as the seeker mech-handled him through a thorough scouring and that just seemed to turn him on all the more. Thankfully Starscream either took the engine revs and flashing headlights as dislike or simply didn't care enough to pay any attention to him. His wheels spun as hot water blasted popping fizzing foam from his chest and helm, Primus, who knew foam cleanser could be such a tease. It frothed under his armor plates bringing sensors to full alert as he could only shove his knees into his face and try so desperately to stay quiet. With a grimace and a grunt Starscream hauled him up by his bound feet and moved him over to the sunken bathtub where he was quickly and repeatedly dunked into the water time and again.

Satisfied for now the seeker set him over the edge of the tub on his belly, gathering buckets of cleanser and oil as the tub drained. Sputtering bubbles and water Jazz could only wonder how torture like this actually got him off and just what it meant for his future job prospects.

"Sit still!"

Ceasing his wiggling immediately Jazz could only hold his moans by putting them into roaring engines, it didn't help that part of him so desperately wanted to get caught and punished... that broad brush had left his backside aching, oh if that fragger put his mind to a good beating- stop. bad Jazz.

"**FRAGGING SIT STILL YOU RUSTED COD-PIECE!" **

Many mechs on both sides of the battlefield had accused Starscream of having a horrible vocalizer but damn if he'd never heard a mech more demanding or more strut jarring, chassis vibrating l_oud_. Frag it all to the pits, Starscream could yell at him like that any time he wanted. Slag could that mech talk dirty to him too! He felt a suspicious wetness trickling down his leg as the seeker went on in a litany of inventive cussing and threats to his person, it was only luck that Starscream couldn't see his face lighting up. He could almost hear past lovers as they whispered cruel sweet nothings to him of cuffs and whips and-

The seeker returned with a basin of something that smelled like cleanser and sex, dumping the hot viscous oil onto his back without warning. Hot oil was great for getting rid of organic contaminants and as far as Jazz was now concerned it was going on _the list_. It oozed into his joints like an overload.

"FRA-"

Thankfully his scream of ecstasy was cut short by an irate seeker with a washcloth gag, sadly that just served to turn him up a notch. Soft rags and hot oil poured over and caressed his helm, acute sensors awash with tingling euphoria. Frag, he'd never been overloaded from touch alone before but even thinking about spike right now was not going to help him in any way what so ever. The Seeker put his weight into the scrubbing and the thrusting motion of scouring, shoving his face into the wet floor and his aft into the air quite like something else entirely. Claws and rags and oil razzed his spinal ridges like a fine instrument as the cloths retreated from his shaking form, back to the hose as it sprayed him clean, the pressure slamming water into his aft. That's it, this wasn't a shower or a bath or even a deranged decon, Starscream had turned hazmat clean up into sex... was this why Sunstreaker took so long in the washracks?

Jazz was unceremoniously picked up by his bindings and tossed onto his front, another bucket of hot oil thrown onto him, rags and claws coming down to scrub him like an insolent youngling, he could almost hear the mech complaining about Skywarp as he sputtered oil. Brushes and scouring pads worked into his belly as he squealed into the gag, writhing with his legs held in the air at their bindings. He screamed when the bristles scrubbed his interface paneling and wailed under chamois cloths polishing his helm protrusions. The hose came back again as the seeker pushed him screaming into the tub with clawed toes, his back to the mech as he overloaded in a flash of pure bliss under a shower of water, little sparks leaping out over the rim of the tub.

Starscream grunted and turned on his heel, seemingly coming out of his thoughts as he surveyed the sprawled out bleary eyed mech gagged and bound in the tub. Now was not the time to be off in la la land.

"What're _you_ looking at?"

He snorted, turned again and walked out of the washracks grumbling about never getting time to himself. Whatever, if that Autobot idiot wanted to lay about with his head in the clouds than far be it from him to tell him otherwise; unlike some people, he had things to do.

It was sometime later when the other Decepticons came back for him, gagged and bound he hadn't been able to get very far and at the time he hadn't quite wanted to. A giggling Wildrider picked him up by his bonds, removing his gag with a crooked look.

"Decepticons: 1, Autobots: 0."

Jazz wasn't in the mood to argue.

He was brought out of the washracks dripping wet and squeaky clean, they passed by the command center on their way to the space bridge, Megatron calmly talking to the Optimus about how they'd been so kind to their guest. He could hear tiny footsteps as he turned to see the vidscreen, Prowl and Optimus were knee deep in negotiations but the mood was utterly spoiled by a certain purple plaque that Megatron had made sure would stand out at his shoulder. Prime couldn't help but look at it longingly; Ratchet and Wheeljack were still elbow deep in making him new plating.

"Time's up, we'll meet you at the designated area for the trade."

Megatron closed the conversation smugly as he joined them on their procession toward the warp gates.

It was cold and dusty where they met and Jazz was eventually turned over to his friends for a small trade of fifty cubes and several medical supplies as well as the Primes shoulder plate; they were starting a collection they said.

A build a Prime as it were...

Jazz was set to his feet and freed of his bonds when he finally came to meet his mysterious follower with his tiny peds and small footsteps.

"Thank you."

Viewfinder stood on the very tips of his peds as he quietly, shyly handed Jazz a small data pad. He couldn't help it, he flipped on the data pad as he walked the short distance to his faction. It was a small store of vid files including an... interesting image of Prowl's aft and a file of Sunstreaker singing in the shower.

Sensitive information like this was best kept in a safe place.

...What a day.


	7. tricky little flitmice

A/N:This story will only make any proper sense if you read one of my other stories called "Rikki Tricky Tavi"

There is no excuse for this but some of the more fun stories out there are just as inexcusable.

Crack 7, inbred third cousin of crack 6.

The hunter and the hunted.

There was shouting coming from the room as he approached; intel had clearly stated that Starscream would have the new raid plans and intel said his quarters were here. Right now though Mirage wasn't all that sure of it.

He couldn't quite make out what was being said or done on the other side of the heavy dented door but it seemed quite...energetic. Mirage winced at the idea of having to go in and find out just what obscenity was being committed behind these walls. Usually the small stealth raids were left with Jazz and his proficiencies as a saboteur and quite frankly, though the mech was known for his creativity, the stories were enough. While he was very good at this job himself the care required to maintain his invisibility cloaking was time consuming, he would sometimes end up away from base for weeks at a time waiting for some fool to just open that one damn door he couldn't hack or risk opening himself.

It was prone to tedium after a while.

He could hear scuffling again, like the sounds of many claws scraping, followed by another shout as the doors finally parted and he darted inside, narrowly missing Skywarp and his rather put-upon scowl.

"Alright, I'm going! Sheez...:

The purple fliers wings bobbed with irritation as he left the room, which struck Mirage as odd; Starscreams trine did not often share quarters with him.

He turned as the doors swished shut and locked and he immediately regretted it. Intel must have been wrong or Ironhide was playing a really bad joke or maybe Teletran had been infected with a virus that had scrambled all the files because that was _not_ Starscream. On what was assumedly the fliers berth lay Thundercracker, his plating and steely mass was covered in pinkish splotches and scratch marks, the mech himself seemed to be having fits as he clawed himself and howled.

"Skywarp you fragger! I will kill you I swear it this time-aaaaarg!"

Bits of the mechs armor were gone, small gouges of dug out flesh covered his body like some kind of contagious rot and small bottles of pink something littered the ground.

Despite the apoplectic vision of rage and itching that was Thundercracker rolling on the berth like a flea bitten hound or a beached fish, the real trouble was far more disturbing. Latched onto the mechs chest plates and face first into his armor was a long lanky creature he had not seen since his days growing up as a Towers mech. It wore a purple steel studded collar with a small golden bell that jangled as it slithered and huffed, tossing bits of scarred mass and armor from the wound it had dug into the underside of Thundercrackers shoulder. Its many clawed limbs held fast to the mechs remaining armor as it squirmed and warbled. With a burblingiss the turbofox withdrew its narrow white head, pulling out a gob of Thundercrackers grey massflesh about the size of his index finger. Cocking it's head back it swallowed the decayed _writhing_ bit of flesh, lapping at its poison dripping mouth with a thin disgusting dribbling red tongue that was almost half as long as the fox itself. Four long needle toothed jaws crunched and chewed as it knocked back its prize in gulps. Four round crimson eyes sunk into its skull as it blinked and stuck that god awful tongue back into Thundercrackers wound, followed shortly by that nasty oily snout.

Mirage was almost sad that he didn't have the opportunity to throw up and resigned himself to holding the protocols in check.

Why had it _ever_ been fashionable to have _anything_ to do with these creatures?

The beast licked and sniffed its way across Thundercrackers abdomen, seemingly satisfied so far with it's job of ripping off the mechs armor and chewing out bits of him.

"Screamer that had better be the last one!"

The fox bobbed its head about and spat, hissing in a display of its many rows of serrated teeth as it sensed the air with nose and tongue. Quickly it moved from its place on the mechs abdomen to his hips, wriggling like serpents and oil.

Suddenly the creature stopped and slowly raised its head, beady eyes focusing in on the shut doorway, tongue sticking out as it quivered.

Mirage had approximately this much time to panic.

The fox squared off with a chirring high pitch scream and launched itself directly at seemingly empty space, Thundercracker rising to give it a bewildered and shocked expression. As far as any normal mech was concerned, when Mirage had his cloaking activated, he was indeed a lot of empty space but a turbofox, half blind as they were, was never concerned with appearances.

"What the frag is your problem!?"

The seeker rose to his peds shouting as he watched the fox writhe about the room chasing seemingly nothing. Datapads crashed to the floor, computer consoles fell from the desk at the wall and dozens of small items were thrown about as the fox became a whirlwind of angry hissing spitting white. Mirage was able to throw the thing from his trail by using his cloaking array to temporarily scramble it's senses but the keyword being temporarily. No sooner had he managed to run it off his trail was the mad creature able to find him again. It chased him as it spat acid, bounding off of Thundercracker to launch straight at the door, missing him by a hairs breadth. It was like some demented game of ring around the rosy as he was chased and nipped from one side of the room to the other in seemingly endless frantic loops.

"What the frag is going on in here?"

The door opened with a swoosh to reveal Skywarp at the threshold; it didn't matter to Mirage that the mech was holding a bottle of who-knows-what and it didn't matter that he seemed to be addressing the turbofox of all things; Mirage could kiss him for that beautiful open hall that lay beyond him.

Blown back by something he couldn't see Skywarp was thrown aside into the hall, the turbofox following not a split second later as it jumped off the desk, bounding off of Thundercrackers shoulder, straight onto Skywarps faceplates and bolted out across the hall at terminal velocity.

"What the frag was that?"

"I dunno TC but it broke the itching-cream"

Said bottle was now nothing but a pink splatter across his faceplates as the other mourned its loss, listening to their turbofox as it ran full tilt romping down the halls in a chorus of shouts and screams, little bell and collar jangling away.

"...Should we warn Megatron?"

"No... he's got a bell on him this time."

Getting home had been difficult but thankfully the entire Decepticon population of the Nemesis had found a mad jingling turbofox a hell of a lot more interesting than the empty space it was chasing. It had taken Megatron himself to catch the thing and the look on his face as it hissed and spat... it was as if he were greeting a familial relative to which one has the utmost of zen-like acceptance. Or a mech finally tipped over the edge to insanity by the sheer undying nature of the madness on his ship.

Mirage couldn't quite puzzle it out, frankly though he was just happy to call the whole mission a bust and get out. There was no telling where anything in Starscreams quarters were now, not with the wild hurricane that had run through it, not with two grunge infected seekers in it and definitely not with a turbofox in the vicinity. It didn't matter, his time was up and he needed to get off the sunken ship before someone got it into their head to find out about whatever it was that the fox had been chasing. It took a lot of waiting for the right mechs to go on shift that night but when the Coneheads had come out for patrol Mirage was right behind them and was off running to the check point for pick up.

It was three days later, back and safe in the Ark, that the itching started.


	8. medical necessity

A/N: If you have an *bleep* lasting for more than four hours see a doctor right away.

Trapdoor

"And why exactly would you deign to come to _me_ with such a... problem...?"

Ramjet stood in front of Starscream, at the side of his lab table, with a unique look upon his face somewhere between extreme pain and nervousness. The mech had been discharged from the medical bay some time ago after a crash landing during one of their recent raiding debacles at a human power facility. His wings had been bent backwards and his shoulder wrenched out of joint but all around damage had been minimal considering the impact. Hopefully that would teach Ramjet not to ram headlong into Defensor but with current trends the way they where Starscream doubted it.

He really was surrounded by fools.

"Would you seriously let Hook at something like this!?"

Ramjet was right, he'd give him that. The Constructicons were impromptu medics and perfectionists at best, they were engineers, not doctors. Starscream wouldn't trust them with his skid plates let alone... that. Apparently he'd dodged the bullet on that one and escaped their clutches before the mechs had decided to treat his condition. The paneling of his cod-piece had been dented, bent inward at the topmost seems.

With a grimace Ramjet could only recount the catastrophe to himself mentally. He'd left the repair bay at a run figuring it wasn't all that bad but apparently he'd not taken into account the location of the injury. The bent armor plating dug into the junction of his thigh, biting him as he walked, it hadn't been that bad at first and he'd been determined to ignore it but now he could barely move his leg and that wasn't even the worst of it. No, the absolute worst had come when he'd gone to his berth with his trine mates. He could still see the look of ecstasy on thrusts face as he was pushed into the berth, Dirge right behind Ramjet and writhing, Primus he could still feel the light touches and digging claws plying at his armor seems...

His panel wouldn't open, the latches had jammed and no amount of picking and clawing at it was going to make it budge. Frag it all he was still hot and his trinemates had just laughed and laughed. They were probably off fragging like petrorabbits and he was stuck here!

Fraggers.

If the injury had been bothersome before and then downright mortifying and frustrating, now it was torture as the broken cod-piece pressed and dug at his engorged spike!

He'd gone to Starscream because the mech actually was a medic, even Megatron went to him for repairs on occasion, plus he could hold this over his trinemates for weeks; everyone was looking for an excuse to get Starscreams claws on them these days. Pit, Swindle was making a fortune on bets as to who's next and how. Ramjet could get repairs, some credits and some sweet pretty seeker at the same time.

"No... Sit."

Starscream, after a moments pause, pointed at a bare spot on his work table for Ramjet to sit and contemplated just how commonplace this scenario had become. Reaching into the drawers at the bottom of a desk to his left he pulled out a few sets of picks and and pliers as Ramjet sat fidgeting on the table. Wheeling his chair back he scooted across the floor to another tool box, picking out rags and oils and a set of sterile gloves.

"I don't believe this slag..."

"Well... as air commander it is your job to make sure all aerial troops are fighting fit." Ramjet spoke smugly to the ceiling as Starscream leveled a deadpan stare at him. "Besides... you are the only guy qualified to do this kinda stuff anyway..." Starscream took note of how logic and his past credentials only worked in his favor when he didn't want them to. Ramjet swung his legs about as he sat and immediately regretted it, wincing as the bent paneling cut at his thigh. With a sigh Starscream scooted his way back up to his lab table and unceremoniously pushed the other mech down flat on the table, bent legs hanging over the edge.

Ramjet could hear the whirring of a blade and nervously bent up to see what the mech was doing only to be pushed back down again face first.

"What the slag are you-"

The blade came down as Ramjet screamed and flailed, a pricking sensation needled at his thigh disturbingly close to certain other equipment.

"Sit down you sparkling!"

Again he was pushed back down onto the lab table, Starscream putting all his weight onto the mech and using his face for leverage. There was a click of cut metal and Ramjet could feel as the dented panel pulled away a little. He breathed a sigh of relief as the pressure of broken paneling released a bit from its death grip on his spike and twitched as the saw blade switched off.

"Frag screamer, you trying to castrate me!?"

Starscream looked back at him again with that same deadpan stare and Ramjet could've sworn the mech was considering his options...

Ramjet threw an obscene gesture his way as he was pushed back down again, Starscream switching out the tiny buzz saw from hell for a tiny hooked pick. They stayed like that for nearly an hour, Starscream face first into his panel as the pick yanked out bits of metal and broken latches, Starscreams breath on his protoform. It tickled and he squirmed, only to receive a look from Starscream that summarily crushed hopes, the nerd had to be fragging asexual or something. Suddenly his brilliant idea didn't seem all that fantastic.

Ramjet was bored... so much for bright ideas, there wasn't much to do right now and the other seeker had made it apparent a while back that fidgeting would not be tolerated. How he was going to detach his back from the table was a mystery, as was the compound the mech had used to stick him to it. He gave an experimental jerk, yep, still stuck... Whistling was out of the question as well, as one too many voiced complaints had seen his vocalizer manually shut off. Starscream was a terror when engrossed in his work, oblivious as well, especially seeing as the mech seemed to know complex anatomy and physiology inside and out. Ramjet wondered what his trinemates were doing now, probably flopping about in post overload bliss, the fraggers. He wondered just who'd won the battle for the most 'loads this time. Dirge could shake down the room with his engines and get his thin claws into more places than a rabid flitmouse but the things that Thrust could do with his mouth should be illegal...

At least he could entertain himself this way, 'sides, how many other mechs on base could say they got the screamer on their crotch? Come to think of it, no one could...not really anyway... at least he thought so.

Such a shame, he'd look great flat out on his berth under his trinemates, if cleaning is what it took to get under the freaks plating he'd bring the brush and the soap... and the cuffs.

Starscream continued his work, pulling out the last pieces of a mangled latch as the other mech daydreamed. He sighed, breath tickling the mechs paneling, making him squirm. Whatever, Starscream had no desire to know what went on in that empty head of his. He was more concerned with the damaged paneling, it seemed to have cut into the mechs circulation, no wonder the idiot was heating up, there were some major energon lines in that area. Primus, right about now he should be curled up on his berth with his trinemates and a data pad or treating himself to a _solitary_ hot shower; he loved scrubbing between his clawed toes, the sensation was divine.

The last piece was removed from the jammed latches and the broken panel was popped off with expert fingers.

"... Your lucky you have an excuse for this..."

"...I do...?"

Starscream gave him a sideways glance, the mechs erect spike practically in his face.

"The energon lines in your leg were being cut off... a normal reaction, yes..."

Starscream eyed the other mech who at least had the decency to look abashed of the whole thing, waggling his brow plates suggestively. Taking the mechs bent panel with a snort of derision and scooting a healthy distance away he pulled out a large hammer and what appeared to be a small anvil that had been fettered away in a corner of the lab.

Ramjet could only watch in horror and reflexively cover his sensitive parts as the mech brought the hammer down on the panel time and again. Small sparks flew and he winced as the mech beat his panel back into shape. He wondered how anyone could beat metal back into shape so brutally and so precisely at the same time. Ramjet got the feeling that the mech would rather turn that hammer on something else entirely as loud clangs reverberated through the lab. Every time the hammer fell he winced in sympathy and wondered if it was possible to manually retract ones own spike.

A few minutes of banging followed by a few more minutes of the click clack of parts replacement and the panel was ready to be reattached.

Still lying on his back, at least his spike had gone limp and the blood flow had been restored, Ramjet watched the other seeker approach, scooting towards him with his repaired panel.

"Starscream where have... you..."

Of all mechs, why did it have to be them? Every mech on the Nemesis knew that Starscreams two trinemates were going stir crazy over the screamers rise in popularity. They eyed other fliers as potential poachers, they went after the Autobot twins like demons and any mech caught staring to long at him was literally ejected from the room. TC harbored the odd delusion that he needed to protect Starscreams innocence but Skywarp was just plain violently jealous when provoked. No one doubted the command trine was the best of the best and no one doubted that Starscream was the best of the best of the best. He was beautiful, strong, intelligent and the fastest most graceful fragger that ever took to the skies. They did no take threats to their trinmate's status as _theirs_ very lightly.

"I'll be out in a second."

They watched, struck dumb with surprise that was quickly melting into fury, as he set about back to work. Ramjet could swear the room was shaking under Thundercrackers humming engines and Skywarp was starting to look positively murderous.

Worst part was, he was still stuck to the fragging table!

He was as still as statue under the combined gaze of two furious elite fliers as Starscream, completely unruffled, deftly manipulated his spike so he could replace his panel. Their eyes glowed as they tried to bore holes in his head from the doorway.

There was a click of replaced paneling and the burring of a welding torch as metal latches were repaired; Ramjet couldn't even bring himself to twitch.

Work finished Starscream stood and walked out the door to his lab with that sway of his hips that had made him infamous, waggling his brow plates sarcastically at the mech as Thundercrackers optics practically lit up with rage. The big flier went to follow the smaller mech as he evened out into a pompous goose step, mock-saluting a passing Combaticon on his way to his quarters.

Ramjet, still aware of a furious Skywarp, could only cringe as he lay stuck to the tabletop. Said purple seeker sauntered over to stand next to him with a scowl that slowly morphed into a sadistic grin.

"So...come here often?"

Ramjet couldn't even respond, vocalizer still resetting itself as Skywarp took hold of him.

Three days later Ramjet would be found by the Autobots somewhere in the alaskan tundra, a birds nest in his cockpit, makeshift home to several species of small mammals, wet, cold and still stuck to the gaddamn table...

With a dent in his panel courtesy of Skywarp.


	9. autobot torture

A/N: Oh good god not another one...

"89 bottles of beer on the waaaaall, 89 bottles of beeeeeer! You take one down and pass it around, 88 bottles of beer on the waaaaaaaaaaall!"

Sideswipe didn't know wether to be outraged or in some way grudgingly impressed. They'd been given guard duty over the captive Decepticons some time ago during which the seekers ranting and raving had gone from boring to outright terrible to... this. Apparently the seeker had deemed fit to take a page from one of Skywarp's many questionable books and the results were a brig-wide mind frag; it seemed dignity could take a back seat to vengeance. Then the purple winged devil himself had joined in and the resulting chorus of nails-on-chalkboard screeching and impish wailing had the brig watch on rapid turnover the likes of which had been previously unimagined. They'd gone through seven watch rotations already and it had barely been five hours...

Sunstreaker looked to be grinding his dentals down as he seriously regretted their latest bout of jet-judo. The air commander had been a prize unlike any other and he and his brother would jump off a cliff if it meant grabbing those pretty pretty wings; they often did. Dragging him down hadn't been fun though, Starscream was always one of the harder mechs to down. Not only did the mech have total mastery of the air but he seemed of the mindset that anyone wanting to take him down had every desire to go down _with_ him. There were still a couple nice Sunstreaker shaped gouges in several mountainsides somewhere, he was sure of it and his broken arm could attest to it. What they hadn't been expecting though was the warpers "diplomatic" arrival, throwing himself fearlessly into the Autobots territory and demanding the right to chaperone under "treaty declaration 12427". The treaty was created late into the war as gestalt and trine populations began to dwindle, no one remembers what humanitarian nitwit had come up with it but it was still valid in their bylaws. Primus knows how Skywarp figured out about it but if that wasn't twighlight zone enough, Megatron was actually going along with it. If the Autobots didn't then there was no point in calling themselves Autobots was there? So they sat together in their prison cell as Prowl tried to work their guest into their plans and Red was confined to med-bay.

The teleporter had gone from glaring at every mech who so much as looked at the screamer to demanding the twin's removal from the brig for 'anti psychopath measures' and insisting that the two would take advantage of them if they were left with the seekers. Thus the third guard in their torture session. Seeing as he couldn't get rid of the perceived threat of sexual harassment he had made it his duty to make this shift their own living hell.

"OOOOOOOOH 76 bottles of beer on the waaaaaaaall, 76 bottles of beeeeeer! You take one down and pass it around, 75 bottles of beeeeeeer on the waaaaaaaaaall!"

"Primus make them stop..."

Normally Starscream would view such activities as vastly below a mech of his intelligence and prospects but the looks on their faces were priceless. Those two idiot twins and their partner in punishment were about ready to try to smother themselves as he sung, or rather shrieked, along with his trinemate. That'll teach them to drag him down the rocks.

Little Spyglass sat inside the air vent high up on the wall, out of sight in the shadows as he watched the mechs below, waiting for the opportunity to slip in and pass along some key-codes to his favorite fliers. There had yet to be a serviceable gap in the guard shifts but it certainly helped pass the time to watch the guards as they suffered, taking quiet photos of their miserable faces was almost worth the noise. Swindle would owe him big for this cache of Autobot buffoonery.

The door to the brig opened and in walked the Autobot spec ops mech of glory himself. His normally unflappable visage of upbeat charisma and barely hidden mischief, upon entering the brig, utterly flapped. He threw a deadpan glare at the two seekers as he was followed swiftly by both Mirage and Ironhide. "You do know that the purpose of treaty number whatsit is to prevent 'unusual cruelty' among prisoners..." Skywarp just shut his mouth with a grin as the singing came to a stop, winking at the spec ops mech with all the abashed humility of an old Autobot senator; i.e. none. "Just keeping my trinemate entertained, ya know it's only right."

Jazz's newfound deadpan stare did not waver, perhaps he picked it up from Prowl. The mechs behind him leveled their weapons as he jerked a thumb to an opposite cell.

"Awwww! I ain't done nothi'n wrong!"

Jazz still looked utterly unconvinced, definitely picked the look up from Prowl; maybe some wire swapping gone wrong he mused.

"Alright alright."

He stood, hands up and empty as he was lead into an adjacent cell under the ever watchful scrutiny of his implacable trinemate. If they so much as harmed a plate on his mate's body he'd take recompense from their own hides and it would be more than just their aft plates. Chained to the wall or not, he'd tear their legs off at the knees.

"Please tell me your'e gonna let us out, Sunny's 'bout ready to go psycho bot." Said Sideswipe as the other shook his head and the purple menace dawdled along smugly into the empty cell. "No can do, Prowlers orders for that last prank." At the mention of pranks the warpers eyes lit up and he made to speak. "Don't even think about it!" Wow, the mech didn't even have to look at him...

As the mechs left Starscream turned to glare at the two twins, shifting his attention into a long, seemingly endless rant about everything and anything that ever managed to crawl up his afterburners. That was a lot off stuff... but it was all music to Skywarp, who had long since become accustomed to his leaders rants. They were long loud, boring and full of words he couldn't understand but they were a perfect counterpoint to Megatron's own rants and despite popular belief they encompassed far more than 'stupid Megabutt' this and 'idiot Autodweebs' that. A night without Starscreams droning rants and screeches was a night Skywarp couldn't sleep, mostly because the day Starscream stopped ranting would be the day Primus publicly smote them all in a fit of rage but even then the seeker would have a few choice words for their god. So he did what he did best and tuned out the world around him to catch some sleep.

"How can he _sleep_ with this freak SCREECHING ALL THE TIME!" Sideswipe howled, succeeding only in receiving an unconscious grumble from the purple seeker and even louder shrieking from the other. It had been three hours and the fragger had yet to even halt for a noticeable intake of air! He'd ranted and raved in more languages than Sideswipe had ever heard in his life; from long dead Vosni to Iacos 3, 4 and 5, the mech was indefatigable. Sideswipe was about ready to renounce pranking alltogether for the chance to get out of this hell and his brother looked about ready to offline _himself_. The bastard had even run off Bluestreak for frags sake!

There was the sound of heavy footsteps as the door to the brig opened again to let in a disgruntled Jazz and a nervous looking Skyfire. They'd had a private meeting while the two boss bots tried to hash out a deal for the seekers return. The only thing holding up the deal was Optimus's rather futile effort to get back a certain bit of his armor. From the look he'd seen on Megatrons smug faceplates they weren't getting it back any time soon. So Jazz had taken pity on the mechs forced into guard duty, on Red who was still glitching out and on his own audials as it was _his_ turn on monitor duty. Jazz had gone to the one mech he knew _must_ have a way to sooth the savage screamer.

Skyfire.

Skyfire had agreed to help despite his wariness, if only to aid his fellow mechs so obviously caught in such a cruel web of torture. He knew well enough that the seeker drove his instructors mad not only with his vocalizer but with the fact that his devious processor could keep up. One look at the mech told him Starscream was most certainly ignoring him, too lost in his ranting to fully give a slag about anyone else in the room. Oh dear, this was a level five rant if he'd ever seen one, def-con one, there was only one way to get out of this now; he'd once seen a level five rant go on for six days straight...

There were hands grasping his ankles. "Please make it stop! I promise I'll never bother the minibots ever again... I'll-I'll even do monitor duty every night and I'll clean the ship with a toothbrush justmakeitstoppleasepleasemakeitstop!" Skyfire dragged the sobbing mech at his ankles for a few steps as he neared the raving seekers cell, wringing his hands together nervously. Starscream would never forgive him for this...

The big mech commed the other to extinguish the energy bars enclosing the cell, he did so with a questioning look as the other entered.

Starscream leveled his glare at the shuttle, determination set into every line of his being as his ranting got louder and more vulgar.

...oh dear...

Sitting down next to the mech only got him the mother of all evil looks as the chained seeker's wings literally vibrated with rage and his screeching only got louder and worse and worse as the shuttle crossed his arms and spared the mech a very put upon look.

Sideswipe cried at Jazz's feet.

With a sigh and a blush the big shuttle leaned forward and grabbed the seeker by a single flailing foot, careful of the delicate turbines as he lifted it until the screeching flier was on his back, hissing, thrashing and screaming some rather horrible invectives.

"Fragging rusted out slag heap of a-"

With deft movements the shuttles big fingers worked into hidden joints and transformation seams to reveal the seekers three long taloned toes that normally hid under the boot like plating.

"Let me GO you rampant trog-"

The seeker pulled at his chains as he was stuck on his back, kicking didn't work against interstellar grade armor when one was stuck in such an awkward position, if he could just reach a little futher he might be able to at least gouge the traitors eyes out!

"Fragging pit spawn slagger-"

Working his blunt digits in between sharp talons as he rubbed at the abused plating and cramped lines of cables and mass in the seekers feet Skyfire couldn't help but notice the abrupt silence... and the stares.

The pride of the Autobot armada stood speechless, openly gaping at them as the seekers ranting whistled weakly into quiet nothing, taught mass and wiring relaxed into looseness and a steady quiet almost bird-like trill and hum took the place of ear splitting shrieks. Starscream lay utterly motionless on his back, totally gobsmacked and not saying a word as his once partner turned his most powerful weapon against him. Slag, it had been ages since he'd had a good foot rub and no one could do a foot rub like Skyfire. He couldn't even find it in himself to shout curses at the mech let alone kick him in the faceplates like he should.

Ten minutes later and a still madly blushing Skyfire was still working his magic on tired achey feet. Anger and a de-railed train of thought had some time ago given way to the purring of his engines and tranquil bliss. The Autobots were still staring, Skyfire secretly hoped something would crawl up and try to build a nest in their dropped jaws, if only to spare him this indignity. He spared them an embarrassed grimace as he continued.

Even Spyglass, hidden in the vents, couldn't bring himself to stop staring... the mighty beast had been tamed... with a foot rub... Megatron would not be pleased.

...oh dear...

Blissful relaxation soon turned to writhing and small keens as the seekers fans kicked on and he started to heat up; silence suddenly breaking into long trembling moans of euphoria as the shuttle worked at a particularly stubborn kink in the seekers ankle joint. White wings fluttered as, with a pop, said ankle was manipulated and massaged into proper alignment, long taloned toes curling in ecstasy. The flier squirmed in his bonds as the other mech pushed blunt digits into hot mass and cables.

Before, the assembled mechs would have given everything to their name just to get the damn seeker to shut up... now they'd do anything to make sit so he didn't _stop_.

Good god, the clink of chains, the writhing moaning and shudders, that gorgeous aft and those slim legs in the air... Jazz was going to have to get Prowl to beat him with the broad side of a brush again.

Spyglass sat behind the grated vent snapping picture after picture of a bound and writhing Starscream on reflex alone, he didn't think he could stop if he wanted to...

Almost an hour of delicious writhing _moaning_ seeker and staring Autobots and Skyfire set down the purring contented seekers feet. The mech had been reduced to a veritable blissed-out puddle of tasty tasty goo and lay spread eagle on the berth, utterly relaxed, unwound and grinning ear to ear with a dusting of a bright blush across dark sharp faceplates and high cheekplates. Half shuttered red eyes glowed scarlet with rapture as his engines hummed. Somewhere between mortification and a perverse sense of pride, Skyfire stood and quietly shuffled out of the room, his fellows still staring as he went.

Sideswipe was out the door and behind the shuttle before Jazz could even blink.

There was a rustling sound as Skywarp jolted awake in the quiet, looking about at the dumbstruck Autobots.

"What'd I miss?

"Your not leaving me here you bastard!" Yelled Sunstreaker as he turned to chase after his brother. "Hey! Stop ya slaggers yer on duty-" The door shut in Ironhide's faceplates as the rest of the mechs went after the twins, forcing the doors open and running after them. They were a loud arguing mass of mechs steadily getting smaller in the distance, leaving the brig empty and silent in their absence. The door shut pointedly behind them.

"...Wut just happened...?"

Two small peds hit the floor with a tiny click of heels as Spyglass slid from the grate to the ground, a key-card full of stolen codes in his small hands as he proffered them to Skywarp.

"Your'e a shitty chaperone."

With the click of another snap shot the tiny spy mech walked away into the shadows.


End file.
